Torment
by 017Bluefield
Summary: Overwatch/Project Bluefield oneshot. After an excursion brings him against several Talon operatives, Bluefield comes face-to-rifle with its "perfect assassin": Widowmaker. The outcome gives Blu a jarring glimpse of what once was, and can never be again. Reviews are dearly appreciated! :D


"Torment"

* * *

><p>I had to actually grab my nose to pull my head out of the asphalt.<p>

"Ow," I muttered. "Ow, ow, _ow._"

Bits of black stuff crumbled and fell away, back into the humanoid crater in the street. I hadn't expected that guy to knock me back so damn hard. _Stupid,_ I thought. _Very stupid of me._

With my head free, I focused on pulling out my left arm, the ZeroDrive still intact. Then my torso.

I was just finishing up with prying my legs out of the street when I looked up―the barrel of a custom-built sniper rifle trained on my forehead.

The woman aiming the rifle said nothing. Her visor deactivated, retracted from her face. She narrowed her yellow eyes slightly, her blue skin contrasting with the red neon signs in the background. Her purple hair almost appeared on fire in the light.

I recognized her from the files stolen from that organization—"Talon"…_if_ my memory isn't terrible.

_So, this must be Widowmaker,_ I thought.

The rain was starting to fill the crater with water.

She stared at me with her steely cold eyes. If Monsieur Lacroix's account was anything to go by, his wife had been nothing—_nothing_—like the woman she was now. Whatever Talon had done to her in its two-stage plan, it had been…effective, to say the least.

I shuddered at the thought.

"You're mine now," she said quietly, her French accent clear in the rain.

I could only look her in the eye, ignoring everything else about her.

"…You clearly want something from me," I ventured. "Otherwise, I'd have a bullet hole in my forehead by now—one inch to the left on my ugly face."

BANG.

She missed on purpose. I didn't react. I couldn't.

_WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME,_ I asked myself.

"You're rather self-deprecative for _une vermine,_" she murmured. She pulled the rifle back to my head. "No lies, no tricks. Give me the intel you stole. _Now._"

_Well, thanks for calling me a vermin,_ I thought. "Why? _They_ still need it?" I asked.

"That is the concern of neither you nor I."

"Well, I don't have it."

"_Menteur._" (Liar.)

"Don't believe me? May as well shoot me."

In retrospect, I can't believe I'd said that.

And yes. She did.

BANG. _Pumft!_

I recoiled, almost falling back into the crater, grabbing at the sniper round now lodged in my forehead.

"GAH—!" I screamed, the pain almost unbearable. "Dammit it all!"

Bracing myself for what would come next, I pulled the bullet out.

"Exacting payment for: dislodging bullet," the ZeroDrive said calmly. "Activating: Psych Shock."

_Crap,_ I thought. I was hoping for something else.

Immediately, tenfold pain began wracking through my head. My eyesight was reduced to lights screaming from the back of my eyeballs. Soon, I was faintly aware of Widowmaker even being there. I could feel Fracture Fluid flowing out of the wound in my head, cracking my skin as it went past my eyes.

The Psycho Shock gave me the usual fare of torment—my utter failure at suicide, for one.

But again, that's not important. _I'm_ not important.

What _is_ important is what I witnessed afterward.

I'd managed to pull myself out of the crater. I was still shaking the visions out of my head when I looked up at Widowmaker. _Why hasn't she shot me yet?_ I had wondered a second before.

Then I saw her.

And holy _crap_.

She was writhing in pain, clamping both hands on either side of her head. Her rifle was on the ground, discarded and forgotten. And her expression…her expression was one of _absolute torment_.

"Gérard…" she muttered. "_Non_…not Gérard…"

I remember thinking: _**What?**_

Under different circumstances, I would've taken the chance immediately to leave.

But, like an _idiot,_ I'd hesitated for one second. Somehow, what I was seeing was much, _much_ scarier than her usual self.

Finally pulling it together, I managed to get up and stumble away, headache starting to fade. The Psycho Shock had been much stronger than I'd expected. My mind was still recovering from the self-inflicted trauma, the knife-to-throat memory.

Just as I reached the corner, I stole a glance back just as a bullet grazed my cheek.

Widowmaker. She had her rifle back in her hands, her scope trained on my head, and her expression set to—well, I'm pretty sure she looked marginally pissed, for someone with "numbed emotion".

_She recovered fast,_ I thought.

The sniper touched the side of her visor. A cluster of all-seeing red lights glinted through the rain.

My right hand wandered to my jeans pocket—pulled out a flashbang.

_Shing,_ went the pin.

* * *

><p>Between the flashbang and the gurney is a blur of memory.<p>

The white gives way to a brick wall. I nearly faceplant into it instead of rounding the corner.

The shadows in the puddles.

The sound of a grappling line.

I stumble back into the safe zone—almost drunkedly from the pain.


End file.
